


The Revolution Before Christmas

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crack, Developing Relationship, M/M, Nightmare Before Christmas AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:42:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>The Nightmare Before Christmas</em> AU. Enjolras is dissatisfied with life in Bastille Day Town, and wants to do more. Grantaire thinks this is a plan heading for disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Revolution Before Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I decided to write a bunch of cracky AUs all in a row because it's not like I have a reputation to uphold or something.
> 
> Anyway, this was originally written for Halloween, but seeing as it involves literally nothing to do with Halloween, and seeing as it's basically Christmas season (I follow the November 1st = CHRISTMAS TIME philosophy - sorry not sorry), I figure it doesn't much matter that it's now November.
> 
> Originally published in two parts, but I've combined them.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: I own nothing but my mistakes.

Enjolras grinned down at the crowd of protestors, pamphlets circulating freely. “Good job, everyone!” he called over the shouts of solidarity. “Another Bastille Day well done! I could  _feel_  the fire of the people this year, and I know we’ll make a lasting difference.”

He hopped off the makeshift stage, accepting the pats on the back and the handshakes people seemed determined to give him. Once he was free of the crowd, though, the smile slid off his face, replaced by a scowl.

He was tired of this, year after year, riling the people up, inspiring such feelings of patriotism and the legacy of revolution, and every year watching as that feeling faded away faster than the July heat.

He wanted to do  _more_.

His options, though, seemed limited, and as much as he enjoyed life in Bastille Day Town, he could no longer deny that something was missing.

"Sou for your thoughts?" a voice slurred to his right, and he jumped slightly.

Of course. Grantaire.

Though nominally one of the core members of Bastille Day Town, the Les Amis de l’ABC, Grantaire was more liable to be drunk than passing around pamphlets and trying to incite revolution.

The only revolution Grantaire seemed liable to incite was the revolution of Enjolras’s morals, sure that one day he would snap and murder the man for every snide and sarcastic comment he made during Bastille Day Town meetings.

As such, Enjolras took a deep breath before responding. “Grantaire,” he said carefully. “I did not see you there.”

Grantaire smiled and stretched, his cockade crumpled and crooked against his waistcoat. “Ah, but I saw you. You would think in this town, tricolored as it is, a flash of red would not be out of place, but your red burns brightest of all.”

Enjolras glanced down at his red jacket, brow furrowed, and decided not to ask what Grantaire was going on about. “I was just headed out to clear my head,” he said instead. “Preparations will need to be started soon for next year’s celebration, with more rallies and bigger protests to stir the people even further.”

Cocking his head slightly, Grantaire frowned. “Normally Bastille Day leaves you so ebullient that I fear you will start a revolution here in town. But not today. Today you seem…” He trailed off, trying to find a word to describe how Enjolras seemed to him. “Today you just seem  _off_.”

Though Enjolras shook his head, he wondered briefly when or how Grantaire had become so perceptive. “I am fine,” he said quickly, forcing a smile onto his face. “Everyone has said that this was the best Bastille Day yet, after all. So there’s that. Sometimes the mind just needs a break is all.”

“In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never once taken a break,” Grantaire told him mildly, no accusation in his voice, though he did look slightly concerned. “Are you sure that everything is alright with you?”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras said shortly, his temper beginning to get the best of him. “I’ll be fine.”

And with that, he brushed past Grantaire, heading for the hill outside of town, not noticing the longing look that Grantaire gave him as he left.

* * *

 

Enjolras sat on the hill, watching le Tricolore as it waved lazily in the breeze, dappled by the setting sun. The scene should have made him feel happy or at the least peaceful; instead, he was brooding.

Everyone had thought that this Bastille Day was a success, but Enjolras was not everyone. He could see the flaws in their plans from the past year, of course, but it wasn’t necessarily just their plans that had failed. The people just didn’t seem to want to listen.

They went through the motions, of course, the military parades and the tricolors flying and the fireworks and whatever else, but Enjolras, who had always prided himself on being attuned to the mood of the people, could tell that it was just that. There were so many issues still in the world, issues that would require some form of revolution to overthrow the oppressive systems that kept the issues going, but instead, the people seemed content to let these abuses continue, spending the day dedicated to the spirit of rebellion and freedom doing anything but continuing that legacy.

For any other person, it would almost be enough to make him give up, to make him ask why he tried to hard year after year after year when nothing seemed liable to change. He would be praised just the same if he only put half the effort in, of that he was sure.

But he didn’t want to do less.

He wanted to do  _more_.

One day a year was not enough to remind the world of what had been done and what still needed to be done. One day a year was not enough to be dedicated to the cause of liberty and revolution.

But short of doubling their efforts next year to leave a deeper impression in the hearts and minds of the people, Enjolras was quite at a loss over what to do. And brooding as he was only seemed to make it worse.

Abruptly, he stood, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and scowling down at the ground as he began to walk, not even paying attention to where his feet were taking him.

So engrossed was he in his thoughts that he did not notice that he had wandered far beyond the borders of Bastille Day Town. When he finally looked up, he glanced around, surprised. He found himself in a clearing with trees that ringed the clearing. Each tree had a door on it, a door shaped like curious objects. One looked like a brightly colored egg; another was shaped like a turkey. His hand lingered on the doorknob of one that was an orange pumpkin with a grinning face, but then his eye caught sight of one with a pine tree, decorated and bright.

Almost in spite of himself, he walked over to it, hesitating for only a moment before turning the knob and stepping into the doorway.

* * *

 

“Grantaire!” Courfeyrac called cheerfully, clapping him on the shoulder. “How are you, good fellow?”

Grantaire lifted his head off of his arms and blinked up at Courfeyrac, and over his shoulder, a thoroughly-amused Combeferre. “Go away,” he groaned. “I’m far too drunk for anything you’re about to say.”

Courfeyrac sat down next to him, prizing the wine bottle from his hands and taking a sip himself, making a face at the taste. “Now, now,” he chided. “We’re not here for idle chit-chat.”

Snatching the wine bottle back, Grantaire sat up slightly. “Then why are you here? To annoy me to death?”

Combeferre cleared his throat. “We had hoped you might have seen Enjolras recently, as neither of us can find him nor have seen him since yesterday. He disappeared in the midst of the festivities, and, well, you always seem to have an eye on where he is.”

The comment was innocent enough, and a true observation, but Grantaire still flushed an ugly shade of red and spat, “I am hardly one of his trusted lieutenants. If it’s anyone’s job to keep an eye on our Noble Leader, it’s yours.”

“Be nice,” Courfeyrac sighed, rubbing a hand over his eyes. “It’s only been a day since Bastille Day, and we should all be in far more festive a mood.”

“And I daresay we would be if we could find Enjolras,” Combeferre said, an edge to his normally calm voice. “It’s not like him to go off right after Bastille Day. Normally he’s brimming with ideas for what to do next year to make it even better.”

Grantaire shrugged, though he didn’t meet either of their eyes. “Maybe he just needed a bit of a break for once.”

Courfeyrac laughed out loud. “Good one, Grantaire,” he chortled. “Enjolras, take a break. The day Enjolras decides to take a break is the day that you decide to give up on drinking. And what a magical day that would be. In fact, who knows what both of you could accomplish if Enjolras were to relax and you were to be sober?”

He tipped an enormous wink to Grantaire as he stood, still chuckling, and he did not notice as Grantaire set the bottle on the table, looking at it curiously.

* * *

 

Enjolras had still not appeared by sundown, and Les Amis were beginning to panic. “Nobody panic!” Joly commanded, sounding more panicked than anyone else. “We don’t know where Enjolras is, but how much trouble could he have gotten in, really?”

“Knowing Enjolras, he’s burned something to the ground or staged a one-man revolution,” Bahorel said gloomily, clearly disappointed that he was not invited to be a part of this riot.

Feuilly punched him in the arm and scowled at him, while Bossuet asked, “Do you think he’s been arrested? Again?”

Grantaire snorted from his position in the corner, sketching on the piece of paper in front of him (his customary bottle of wine conspicuous only in its absence). “He didn’t seem to be in the kind of mood that would get him arrested when last I spoke to him. Though I suppose it wouldn’t really surprise me if he was, anyway.”

Everyone swiveled in unison to look at him, the looks ranging from the curious to the accusatory. “You told us you hadn’t seen him,” Combeferre said, his voice strained.

“I did no such thing,” Grantaire replied easily. “I merely said that it was not my job to keep an eye on him, which really, it isn’t.” At the continued stares, he sighed and elaborated, “I saw him yesterday right at the end of the celebration. He was headed out to the hill. He told me — in his own words, and trust me, I was as shocked as you — that he was going to take a short break.”

Silence fell in the room as everyone glanced at each other, completely unsure of what to say or do with this information, when suddenly the door banged open and Enjolras strode in, beaming widely. “Good evening, friends!” he said cheerfully, though he looked startled when everyone heaved a sigh of relief at his presence.

“Where have you been?” Joly demanded, as Jehan added, “We were just about to send a search team after you.”

“Ah.” Enjolras looked almost giddy as he strode to his customary place at the front of the room. “I’m sorry to have worried you, but I have been to a most wonderful place, and I have discovered something.” He paused and surveyed the room, his smile growing even wider. “Friends, our goals  _are_  achievable, especially if we work in conjunction with other holidays. If we brand our message in its most basic terms — hope, peace, goodwill among men — we can spread wider than we even thought possible.”

Combeferre exchanged a glance with Courfeyrac and said simply, “Tell us more.”

Before Enjolras could, though, Grantaire asked incredulously from the back of the room, “Where the hell did you go, and what the hell did you drink while there?”

Ignoring the second part of Grantaire’s question, Enjolras’s grin widened as he pulled from his pocket a single red glass ornament, setting it down on the table as he said simply, “I went to Christmas Town.”

* * *

 

Enjolras’s plan seemed crazy, his desire to take over Christmas, to turn it into a revolutionary holiday, indoctrinating the young children with thoughts of barricades and liberty instead of sugar plums dancing in their head, completely insane. At least, it did to Grantaire, who sat in the back of the room, bottle back in front of him, scowl on his face.

No one else seemed to notice just how terrible this plan was, how much it was doomed to fail. And while Grantaire tried to point this out to Enjolras — at first, quietly, pulling Enjolras aside to tell him in hushed tones, but when he was brushed off, he started speaking out in front of everyone else, hoping that someone,  _anyone_ , would notice, would say something — everyone else seemed content to go along with it.

Enjolras even got Patron-Minette involved. Despite his personal distaste for some of their practices (and their association with Thénardier, who, in Grantaire’s opinion, had been suspiciously quiet during this whole planning session), Enjolras understood and respected their unique skills.

And when he asked if they could go convince Santa Claus to come visit Bastille Day Town, Montparnasse grinned a slow, almost lazy grin, elbowed Babet in the ribs, and promised that they were on it.

Grantaire watched them head towards Thénardier’s and shook his head. “Enjolras,” he said loudly. “Now that even Patron-Minette has been assigned a task, surely you must have something that I can do as well.”

“You?” Enjolras asked, arching an eyebrow at him. “Are you good for anything?”

Shrugging, Grantaire set his bottle down on the table. “I could be,” he said, his voice quiet.

“You don’t even believe in what we’re trying to accomplish here,” Enjolras said, his tone mild, though frustration colored the words. “You have spent every single day sitting here and mocking what we are trying to accomplish as Christmas creeps steadily closer, and you want me to assign you some task, to trust you with something?”

Grantaire’s expression darkened. “I may not believe in what you are trying to accomplish here — I may even think you’re a little crazy — but I have always believed in you.”

Enjolras frowned. “Stick to drinking, Grantaire,” he replied scornfully. “Your talent for cynicism has no place in a holiday dedicated to hope.”

Nodding, Grantaire swallowed hard and stood, avoiding Enjolras’s eyes, though he did pat him on the shoulder as he brushed past him. “You will see,” he whispered.

* * *

 

Montparnasse jabbed the sack, which was wriggling as if someone inside of it was struggling to get out. “Keep quiet or I’ll get my knife out,” he hissed, readjusting his top hat.

The struggling only picked up in intensity, and Babet landed a hefty punch on the bag. “Are we taking him to Enjolras or to Thénardier?” he asked. “He’s getting restless.”

Frowning, Montparnasse took out his knife and ran his thumb over the edge as if testing its sharpness. “I am less afraid of the retribution of a group of schoolboys as I am the wrath of Thénardier. Let’s take him there.”

* * *

 

By the time Christmas Eve rolled around, Grantaire had run out of options to try and stop Enjolras, who was loading the final tricolored-wrapped gifts into the sleigh, the giant Gallic roosters attached to it crowing as they ruffled their feathers. “Enjolras!” he called, desperately. “Don’t do this. Please.”

Enjolras turned to raise an eyebrow at him. “Be serious, Grantaire,” he said, adjusting his cockade as he swung into the sleigh.

As Grantaire watched the sleigh take off, he shook his head. “For once, I was,” he said to no one in particular.

* * *

 

When they heard the gunfire, the citizens of Bastille Day Town took to the barricade, convinced they were under attack. Instead, they watched as the missiles were fired at Enjolras, listening in horror to the radio broadcast that came in crackling over the wireless. “Reports have been issued of a rogue Santa delivering presents that have been reported as muskets and rifles, tricolored flags, miniature guillotines, and even build-your-own barricade kits. Though we have no information at this time on who this imposter is and what he has done with the real Santa Claus, the United States Military has vowed to shoot him down in an attempt to stop further delivery of these gifts.”

Grantaire felt as if his heart might stop. They were going to shoot down Enjolras? Enjolras could be  _killed_  and here was Grantaire, alone and drunk as always, because he hadn’t been able to stop him, hadn’t been able to  _save_ him (if even just from himself).

On any other day, he might have given up, might drink himself into oblivion and known no more. But not tonight, not with the knowledge that Enjolras may soon be dead. Tonight, he would do what he knew Enjolras would want him to do.

And so he set off for Thénardier’s.

* * *

 

Enjolras pulled himself from the wreckage of the sleigh, something like a weight seeming to crush his heart.

He had failed.

All his plans, all his dreams, all his hopes…they had all come to nought. The people had not only chosen to stay in their beds, but had allowed the government to shoot him down, to squash the revolution before it began!

He wanted to weep.

He wanted to curl up in a ball and never have to face the world again.

But he was Enjolras, and he did not cry. Not over this. Instead, he got angry, and he  _smiled_ , a vicious smile. Because he had ideas now, idea for the next Bastille Day, ideas for how to sway the people.

This was not a defeat. This was a means to an end.

First, though, he amends to make, mistakes to put to right. He might even have an apology to give, if he could manage it.

So he stood and he brushed off his red jacket, readjusting his cockade and tying the tricolor sash more firmly around his waist before striking out to fix the flaws in his plans.

* * *

 

Snow was falling softly on Bastille Day Town, and even from his position outside of town, standing on top of the hill, watching le Tricolore as the snow fell around it, Grantaire could hear the laughter from Les Amis as they rolled around and played in the snow. An almost involuntary smile lifted the corners of his mouth at the thought of his friends and their joy, but for him, joy was not to be found.

Then he heard a sound, and turned to find Enjolras trudging up the hill towards him, hands in his pockets, looking almost contemplative. “My friend,” he said, strangely formal, once he had reached the top of the hill. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Grantaire blinked, surprised, and shrugged. “Of course not. I’ve never minded.” Not that Enjolras had really done this before, of course, but still. Grantaire wouldn’t have minded then, just as he didn’t now.

“Thank you, by the way, for your help with Thénardier,” Enjolras said, nudging Grantaire lightly with his elbow. “I was wrong when I said you weren’t good for anything.”

Grantaire snorted. “Technically you didn’t tell me that,” he pointed out, his tone light. “You merely asked if I was good for anything. I’ve always had a vague ambition to be good for something.”

“And you are.” Enjolras’s voice was firm and booked no room for argument, and Grantaire shot him a look, confused. There was a long moment before Enjolras spoke again, a moment spent trying to gather his thoughts and say what he needed to. “You tried to tell me.” Enjolras’s voice was soft, almost gentle, and Grantaire looked up at him nervously before looking away again. “It wasn’t just cynicism and sarcasm this time. You really tried to warn me that the plan would not succeed.”

“I didn’t want you to fail,” Grantaire said honestly. “I’ve never wanted you to fail. The thing that I want most in this world is for the people to take your message to heart and rise up and overthrow the systems that still oppress them. Because if they did, then maybe…”

He trailed off, and, to Enjolras’s surprise, blushed slightly. “Then maybe what?” Enjolras asked, confused. Grantaire just shook his head and turned away, but Enjolras grabbed his wrist, keeping him there. “Maybe what, Grantaire?”

Grantaire took a deep breath. “It was a fool’s dream,” he said, a little desperately. “A hope that should never have been, and I know that, and I know that it’s something that just isn’t meant to be, but…” He glanced at Enjolras and bit his lip before saying softly, “I thought that if the people rose up, then maybe you could turn your thoughts to something other than revolution. Maybe there could be a place in your life for…for more than friendship.”

“Oh.” It was Enjolras’s turn to blush slightly and turn his head away. “I did not…I mean, I realize now, of course I do, but I didn’t…I don’t…I didn’t know.”

“I know,” Grantaire told him, a small smile hovering on his lips. “I didn’t want you to know. Though, of course, at the same time, I very much did. But I was always afraid, afraid that you would tell me no, and I don’t know if I could take that. It was easier if you just didn’t know.”

Enjolras was silent for a long moment, then he said softly, “I would have wanted to know. And I…I wouldn’t have said no.”

Grantaire whipped his head around to face him so quickly that he almost gave himself whiplash. “You…what?” he asked, barely daring to breathe.

Smiling slightly, Enjolras ducked his head. “Don’t misunderstand. Revolution will always come first. But Christmas…as much of a mistake as this was, Christmas had taught me that humans are capable of peace and goodwill among men. And if that’s true, then maybe…maybe our end goal isn’t as far out of reach as I had thought it might be. So if you’re willing to be patient—”

He was cut off by Grantaire, who leaned in and kissed him in the middle of talking. “Sorry,” Grantaire said breathlessly. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Enjolras chuckled and kissed him back, though he added, voice slightly stern, “As I was saying, if you’re willing to be patient, and if you’re willing to share me with the revolution, I…I think I might like to try. You…you’re invaluable to me, Grantaire. And I just wish I had realized it sooner.”

“You realized it now,” Grantaire said. “And though I admit that patience isn’t necessarily a virtue I claim to espouse, I will nonetheless wait as long as you need me to. On one condition, anyway.”

Cocking his head, Enjolras asked mildly, “Oh? What condition is that?”

“You let me kiss you again,” Grantaire said simply.

And so he did.

* * *

 

Years later, Santa paid a visit to Bastille Day Town when he was on vacation, and he saw Enjolras (and Grantaire, by his side and holding his hand, a smile on his face and a bottle nowhere in sight). When he got to speak to Enjolras alone, Santa asked him quietly, “If you could turn the clock back to that night and do it again, knowing what you know now, knowing what you did then, would you do it all over?”

And Enjolras just smiled, glancing over at Grantaire, who was always not far away, and for a moment, he looked exactly like the Enjolras Santa once knew, the one who had rescued him from Thénardier and apologized profusely for not understanding what Christmas was about. And then he asked softly, eyes still lingering on Grantaire, “Well, wouldn’t you?”


End file.
